


Tints and Shades of a Particular Hue

by Sandrene09



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Smosh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Somebody once said that love is blind.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>That’s not fucking true. Love isn’t even colorblind, for fuck’s sake.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Love is seeing color and not knowing what the hell one’s supposed to do. Or, in Anthony’s case, love is seeing color and not knowing who the hell he’s supposed to end up with.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tints and Shades of a Particular Hue

**Author's Note:**

> For abisalilshit, who wanted me to write something based off [this](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B_YYfx4WcAALxBT.png:large) brilliant post she saw on tumblr. Sorry if the fic sucks, but hey, at least I tried…?

Science dictates that colors do not exist in the physical world.

This, Anthony feels, is an important thing to state.

Colors are only perceived by the human mind. There is no _green_ or _blue_ or _red_. Instead, there is light, and there are eyes, and there is the brain. Anthony’s not going to get into the science of it all because, to be perfectly honest, he doesn’t think he can actually explain the whole thing without confusing everyone even more, but what is important is that he has said what he thinks needed to be said: _colors are only a perception_.

There are a lot of things that are explained by Science—things that Anthony never knew needed explaining or never even thought about questioning—and the subject of colors is just one of myriad subjects. In this day and age, the list of things that Science can’t explain is shortening by the day.

One of these things that can’t be explained is _this_.

Despite the countless researches and theories, nothing and no one can quite explain why humans are born with the ability to see objects and people around them only in varying shades of gray, or why humans can only see color once they meet the person or people they’re meant to fall in love with.

No one can quite explain why Anthony has been able to see color for the longest time.

_This_ is where the story starts.

-.-.-.-

Anthony is in grade six when the change happens.

It’s the first day of school—his first day of being a sixth grader—and he’s not really excited to be at school again, but he goes through his morning routine, grabs his backpack, and goes to school.

He steps into the classroom, his eyes scanning around to see who his classmates are, and he blinks.

When he opens his eyes, he sees color. He doesn’t know what they’re called yet, doesn’t know which color is _red_ and which coloris _yellow_ —things that he only knows because he heard his grandma talking about them—but he knows that this _isn’t supposed to be happening_.

For the longest time, Anthony had been excited at the prospect of finally seeing color, but not because he wanted to see color. No, he had been excited because he had wanted to meet the love of his life.

This—this isn’t supposed to be happening. He isn’t supposed to see color the moment he steps into the classroom. He’s supposed to see color the moment he meets the person he’s meant to love.

Panicked, Anthony steps outside the doorway, a ridiculous idea forming in his mind that maybe if he steps back, the color will disappear and he will see the world in shades of gray again. He blinks in quick succession, trying to get the color to disappear.

The color remains.

He sighs, walks back inside the classroom, and sits down. A few rows in front of him is a kid he’s never seen before, slightly too-long hair arranged in a bowl haircut.

He doesn’t think any of it, doesn’t think about how convenient it is that there’s a new kid in the class when Anthony undergoes the change. Instead, he thinks about how he has to tell his teacher later that he’s stopped seeing the world in gray, thinks about how he’s going to have to start his post-change lessons soon so he can finally learn more about identifying colors.

In retrospect, Anthony thinks he should have paid more attention.

Well.

Hindsight is always 20/20.

-.-.-.-

Anthony looks at Ian from the corner of his eyes, surreptitiously watching him from the couch as Ian half-dances, half-walks across their kitchen in his vivid orange socks. He has white earphones in his ears, and his brown hair bounces as he dances.

Anthony shakes his head and turns his focus back onto his phone.

He ignores the way his heart flip-flops in his chest.

-.-.-.-

There is an unwritten rule everyone follows: _never ask about other people’s eyesight and their ability or inability to see color._ Of course, this rule is often broken, but mostly only by family members.

When Anthony gets home the day he undergoes the change, he goes to his mom and asks.

His mom pauses from chopping up onions and looks at him, a sad smile on her face. She kneels down and ruffles his hair—something Anthony _hates_ , but lets her do it anyway because he can see the unshed tears in her eyes—and explains in a quiet voice.

“There’s really nothing to say,” she says, her voice broken and crumbling like hollow blocks hitting solid ground. “When I met your father, I saw color. He didn’t.”

Anthony blinks, not expecting her answer. There are no words ready to leave his mouth. There are no thoughts.

He looks at his mother, looks at the bright color of her shirt, and breathes in deep.

The colors remain.

-.-.-.-

“Hey man, here you go,” Ian says, a box covered in bright blue wrapping paper in his arms. “Happy birthday.”

Anthony grins at Ian, looking at the gift. He takes the gift in his hands, wonders if Ian can see color, if Ian knows that the blue wrapping paper is somehow the exact shade of Ian’s eyes and, at the same time, not _quite_ , and looks at the card taped on the top.

_Congratulations on making it another year!_

_Here’s to many more._

_-Ian._

Ian grins, his (blue) eyes bright with delight. “I totally didn’t give you a dildo as a birthday present,” he says in a loud volume, a grin stretching his mouth widely, before he runs away in a manner that reminds Anthony of the way they act in front of the camera.

Anthony shakes his head fondly before he looks back down at the present, letting his eyes look their fill. After a few seconds, he neatly removes the wrapping paper and opens the box.

Inside is a folded Smosh shirt. He reaches for it, the smile on his face widening even more when he feels something hard and rectangular-shaped. He unfolds the shirt and gets the small black box, opening it with slightly shaking hands.

Inside, there is a pen. It’s a gleaming black Montblanc pen with silver plating, upon which his name is engraved.

He looks at the sticky note on the inner part of the box cover.

_I saw you looking at one of these._

_Now you have a fancy pen to sign with at fancy meetings!_

He lets his thumb go over the engraving, lets his skin feel the small grooves, the warmness of the metal, the curves and straight lines.

He lets his eyes focus on the yellow of the post-it note.

-.-.-.-

The day after Anthony undergoes the change, he gets paired with the bowl-haired boy he saw the day before.

The moment Anthony hears him introduce himself, the colors around him become more vivid, something he doesn’t know could happen. Comparing the colors he sees now to the colors he saw yesterday, the colors he saw yesterday were dull and looking like wilting flowers, as if he were seeing them through a slightly-opaque mesh.

“I’m Ian,” the boy says, a wide grin on his mouth.

“I’m Anthony,” he says. He looks at Ian’s vivid blue eyes, looks at Ian’s red shirt and his jeans.

He doesn’t think about how the color brightened up when Ian introduced himself. Instead, he thinks that it must have just taken a day for his eyes to get used to the color, which is why he’s seeing them clearer now.

It’s ironic, really, how Anthony is still so blind despite having the ability to see color.

-.-.-.-

Somebody once said that love is blind.

That’s not fucking true. Love isn’t even _colorblind_ , for fuck’s sake.

Love is seeing color and not knowing what the hell one’s supposed to do. Or, in Anthony’s case, love is seeing color and not knowing who the hell he’s supposed to end up with.

-.-.-.-

It’s not a secret that sometimes colors fail. This is another thing Science can’t explain.

Science can’t explain why Anthony’s mom saw color and his dad didn’t. Science can’t explain why Anthony saw color before he met anyone. Science can’t explain why colors fade away when the person one is supposed to fall in love with dies.

Science can’t explain why Anthony is falling in love with his best friend with the beautiful blue eyes and the soft-looking brown hair.

Science can’t explain why Anthony is falling in love with his best friend who, to Anthony’s full knowledge, was colorblind when he met him.

-.-.-.-

Anthony isn’t there when Ian meets Melanie in person. However, he’s there when they decide to get drunk the next day, Melanie surprising them both with her ability to drink them under the table.

There are too many beer bottles and too many words unsaid, and when Melanie is in Ian’s bedroom and Ian is dragging Anthony to his bed, he lets the words make their way out his mouth. As Ian tries his best to haul Anthony onto the bed, Anthony speaks, his words slurred.

“Hey, hey,” he says in a slightly too-loud voice, trying to get Ian’s attention.

Ian looks at him, worry in his eyes. “Hm?” he asks, concentrating more on getting Anthony to cooperate with him and get to the bed before he collapses.

Anthony’s vision is blurry, but he can still see the colors, can still make out green from blue from violet. He tries to get everything to focus, shaking his head to clear out the cobwebs in his head, but all he is successful in doing is giving himself a headache.

“Ian, Ian, _Ian_ ,” he says out loud, blinking quickly to prevent himself from falling into the darkness. He needs Ian to focus on him, needs Ian to look at him and concentrate on what Anthony’s about to ask him. Anthony _needs_ to _understand_ before he allows sleep to overtake him.

“Yeah?” Ian asks, finally stopping from trying to get Anthony to the bed, his blue, blue eyes focused intently on Anthony’s. “What is it?”

“Can—” Anthony clears his throat before continuing, his eyes falling shut more often than he would like, “can you—ugh my head—can you see color?”

Before Anthony finally lets his eyes shut, before Anthony finally lets himself succumb to the siren call of sleep, he thinks he sees Ian give him a sad smile.

“Yes,” he says.

The next morning, when Anthony wakes up and feels like death warmed over, he finds the glass of water and bottle of Tylenol on his nightstand.

He hears _yes_ echo in his head.

Melanie, he thinks, is a very lucky girl.

-.-.-.-

“Hey man, I’m sorry.”

Ian looks up from his cup of coffee, his blue eyes focused on Anthony’s. “What for?” he asks, confusion coloring his tone.

Anthony shrugs and sits down, facing Ian. “You know,” he says, hoping that Ian _does_ know and that Anthony won’t have to spell everything out for him. He’s stuck in that uncomfortable zone where he doesn’t want to acknowledge that something has happened, yet he knows he has to acknowledge it to get some peace of mind.

Ian shakes his head, and Anthony tries to ignore the way Ian’s hair bounces with the motion, tries to ignore the way his heart thuds painfully in his chest.

Anthony bows his head, not wanting to look at Ian’s eyes any longer. “I’m sorry for asking about, you know, the colors thing. It was a breach of privacy,” he says, his voice quiet.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ian says, grabbing his spoon. “Besides, you know, it’s just fair that you know, since I know about how you saw color before you even met anyone.”

“But that’s different,” Anthony quickly says, looking up again. There’s still that horrible pounding in his head, and he’s still a bit sensitive to light, but he goes and looks at Ian’s dead in the eye anyway, refusing to back away from the vivid color. “I mean, I told you that because I wanted to.”

Ian shrugs. “I could have not answered your question, but I still did. That means something, right?”

“I guess so,” Anthony says, looking around.

He doesn’t ask where Melanie is. He knows better than the growing hope in his chest chanting that Melanie’s gone from their home, knows that Melanie’s just probably in Ian’s room, getting some rest.

Color, he has to remind himself as he stands up and heads for the kitchen, does not exist in the physical world. It is merely a perception, like art.

Like love.

-.-.-.-

There are people who die colorblind.

Some people die colorblind because they haven’t found the _one_ (or, in some people’s case, the _many_ ), and some people die colorblind because their person or people died before them.

The former is preferable to the latter. No, it’s not some debatable point, some teenage angst-inducing question of whether it’s easier losing something one has never had the opportunity to feel or if it’s easier losing something after having had a taste of it because at least one had, for a time, experienced the feeling, despite the shortness of the period. It’s not a debatable point because, well.

You can’t lose what you never had.

It’s a lot harder, according to Science, to get used to the gray after seeing the world in color. An adjustment period of at least two months are given to those who have gone back to seeing the world in shades of gray after losing the ability to see color, because refresher courses about grayscale have to be taken and therapy sessions have to be attended.

But that’s Science.

Things like these, in Anthony’s opinion, cannot be fully explained by something like Science—cannot be explained by cold hard truths and explained facts—because this, as people would like to say, is determined by something as playful and, to some people, _ludicrous_ , as fate, which is why he refuses to believe that it’s harder to lose something after having had a taste of it.

After all, Anthony has the ability to see color despite not knowing who the fuck he’s supposed to end up together with.

In some ways, Anthony thinks as he watches Ian laugh at a video he’s watching on his phone, a clenched fist in front of his mouth, his eyes closed as he struggles to breathe, it’s harder to lose something he’s never had.

Ian opens his ridiculously blue eyes and starts to hand Anthony his phone, eager to show him the video, and Anthony’s heart beats painfully in his chest. Anthony takes the phone with a small smile on his face, and before watching the video, he watches Ian wipe tears away from the corner of his eyes.

It’s a lot harder to lose something he’s never had the opportunity to have.

-.-.-.-

Anthony meets Kalel in a club.

He ignores the strobe lights cutting across the darkness and pretends that the colors he sees are a little brighter because he met her.

-.-.-.-

Kalel can see color. It’s what allows her to be as well-dressed as she is.

Anthony doesn’t ask if it’s him. He knows it isn’t. He also doesn’t ask her about _him_.

After all, some people meet the right person at the wrong time.

-.-.-.-

When Melanie and Ian break it off, Anthony feels his heart flip-flop in his chest.

He doesn’t want to say he’s relieved. He doesn’t want to say he feels better, because he _doesn’t_. It was easier for him before, after all, when Ian had someone.

“Are you okay?” Anthony asks Ian one day, when he’s feeling a bit masochistic.

Ian shrugs. “I’m okay.”

Though it kills him, Anthony asks. “How’s your sight?”

Ian shoots Anthony a strange look, his eyebrows furrowed. “She’s not _dead_ , Anthony,” Ian reminds him, shaking his head. “Besides, it wasn’t her.”

The words echo in Anthony’s head.

_It wasn’t her_.

-.-.-.-

It’s Kalel who breaks up with him, contrary to popular belief.

“I can’t be with you when I know you can see color,” she says.

“You can see color too,” he points out.

She frowns at him and gives him a look he can’t quite decipher. After a few seconds pass, she shakes her head, a sad facsimile of a smile on her face. “There’s a difference, Anthony. I gave my guy a chance and we didn’t work out. You haven’t given _him_ a chance, have you?”

Anthony shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Kalel. I started seeing color when I was younger. I started seeing color without meeting anyone new. I just stepped into my classroom, and suddenly I underwent change.” His voice falters, before he continues on, his voice soft and just little more than a whisper. “It’s not him.”

“That’s not possible,” Kalel tells him in a matter-of-fact tone, like she knows him a lot better than he knows himself. “I see the way you look at him, you know? You look at him like he’s all you’ve ever wanted. I never once saw you look at me like that.”

Anthony blinks, and he bows his head.

They don’t mention his name because they don’t need to. They both know they’re talking about the same person.

It’s night time when Kalel breaks it off with him. That night, he clings to her a little bit tighter.

In the morning, Kalel gives him a knowing look before she leaves.

That had been that.

-.-.-.-

Despite Kalel’s advice, Anthony doesn’t tell Ian. There’s too much at stake, after all.

Besides—Ian knows about Anthony’s sight. If he was really interested, he would have made a move by now, wouldn’t have dated Melanie and asked Anthony out instead.

Right?

-.-.-.-

Anthony’s just getting out of the shower when the world goes out of focus. The brown of his towel looks just a little bit duller, and he shakes his head, confused.

After a few seconds of the color dulling even further, he blinks, looking around him. The blue tiles look duller as well, and the few colorful pieces he has in his bathroom are starting to look a little bit grayer.

He makes his way outside of the bathroom in nothing but his towel, his eyes immediately searching for anything brightly colored. He walks to his closet with quick, wide steps and rummages for his most colorful shirts, throwing away clothes that look a bit too gray for him.

He sits down against his closet, thumping his head against the wood. He closes his eyes—he doesn’t think he can bear to see the objects before him turn even grayer, doesn’t think he can bear to see his world change in such a fundamental way.

He’s too young for this. He shouldn’t be losing the ability to see color so soon.

A few seconds pass, and Anthony opens his eyes wide in realization.

_Ian_.

-.-.-.-

Every color, according to art, has a meaning.

Some people believe in the meanings, believe that these colors will affect their relationship with others in very important ways. Anthony’s not one of them.

He’s not one of them, because he _knows_ that even though the 256 shades of gray do not have symbolical meanings, they’re the ones that affect people and relationships the most.

-.-.-.-

“Come on, pick up, pick up, _pick up the fucking phone_ ,” Anthony growls out, frustration coloring his tone. He feels the urge to shout, to run, to punch a fucking boxing bag in order to get rid of the worry and coursing through his veins.

He tries to ignore the way there’s little color left.

This isn’t supposed to happen, Anthony thinks as he paces back and forth. Ian is supposed to answer his fucking phone because he _isn’t the one_ , because Anthony saw color before he met Ian, because he’s supposed to be safe and on his way to moving into an apartment here in LA.

Anthony ends the call and starts another one.

He would give anything for Ian to not be the one, he thinks as he walks back and forth, his knuckles white with how tightly he’s holding his phone.

Sighing, Anthony ends the call once again after a few seconds of ringing. Where the fuck is Ian? He clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to breathe in and out in regular intervals. He feels a panic attack starting to take over him, feels the way he’s breathing in a too quick and too shallow manner. He drops his phone and he looks at his shaking hands, trying to see the healthy color of pink instead of dull gray and white.

Not Ian, Anthony thinks as he slides to the floor, making an attempt to get his breathing under control. Not Ian, not Ian, _not Ian_.

Suddenly, his phone rings, and he reaches for it, grabbing his phone with sweaty hands. “Hello?” he says, not looking at the caller id. It’s Ian, he tells himself, calling him to ask what’s up with the many missed calls.

It’s not Ian.

“Is this Anthony Padilla? Mr. Hecox has you as his emergency contact, and we’re calling to tell you that he’s been in a car accident—”

With just a few words, Anthony feels his heart drop to his stomach, feels his entire world shift.

_Ian_.

-.-.-.-

After having his post-change lessons, Anthony could, at the drop of a hat, recite countless information about colors with the rest of them.

There are three primary colors, three secondary colors, and six tertiary colors. Of all the visible colors, violet has the shortest wavelength, and red has the longest. Tints are colors with white mixed in, and shades are colors with black mixed in. These are things Anthony has memorized, things he can still recite until now. Back then, he thought that memorizing them would be enough. Back then, he thought that he was prepared.

Now, however, he knows better. Memorizing these facts aren’t useful at _all_ , because now that his world is starting to lose its color, the mere fact that tones are colors which have been added with gray isn’t helping him with how to deal with them, with how to accept that he’s losing the person he never even got the chance to be with.

Anthony sits down beside the huge hospital bed Ian’s lying in, and bites his lip in an effort to stop the tears from escaping his eyes. There’s white gauze _everywhere,_ covering bruises and keeping skin together, and beeping machines surround the bed, all clean metallic sheets and glass screens.

Anthony doesn’t know which machines are for which purposes, but he’s so very painfully reminded that every steady beep coming from the machines is what is keeping Ian alive.

After a moment of hesitation, Anthony finally stands up and slips Ian’s right hand in his carefully, like he’s holding precious gems he cannot let fall to the ground.

He’s not very religious, but right now, Anthony thinks he’s willing to pray to every deity out there to just give him— _them_ —another chance.

-.-.-.-

In another world, sixth grader Anthony would have realized after meeting Ian that Ian is the _one_. He would have realized it after the colors became more vivid once Ian had introduced himself, would have realized it once he thinks about the possibility that he began to see color because he had seen Ian when he had scanned the classroom before going inside.

In that world, Melanie and Kalel wouldn’t have entered the picture. Ian wouldn’t have gotten into the accident, because the two of them would have still been living in Sacramento, in the house that they both own. Ian would have still gotten Daisy eventually, and Anthony would have gotten Pip.

In this world, Anthony’s at his apartment for the first time in four days, having been forcefully removed from the hospital by Joven with orders from Mari to rest. He sleeps, but fitfully—he keeps turning in his too-large bed, his head plagued with worries and nightmarish possibilities of the future ahead of him—and after a couple of hours, he gives up on sleep and just keeps his eyes closed instead, trying to relax himself.

In this world, his phone rings, and he reaches for it blindly with one outstretched hand, his eyes still closed.

In this world, Matt tells him Ian’s awake, and Anthony immediately opens his eyes.

In this world, he can once again see his world in color.

-.-.-.-

There are seven colors of the rainbow.

Violet has the shortest wavelength. It is the color of royalty to most, but to Anthony, it’s the color he confuses as the color of Ian’s eyes in a certain light. It’s the color of the bruises on Ian’s skin when Anthony takes him home and removes the gauze. It’s the color that reminds Anthony of just how very fragile they both are, of how they’re nothing more than skin and bones and hopes, the color that reminds Anthony of just how short a time they really have.

Indigo is the color of Ian’s eyes when he’s breathing in too raggedly, lust coursing through his veins as he reaches for Anthony’s lips. It’s the color his bruises turn into after a long while, a sure sign that he’s on his way to full recovery.

Blue is Ian’s favorite color. It’s the color of his eyes when he’s happy and smiling, the color of his eyes when he’s thinking deeply about something. Anthony thinks that blue is the color that he has fallen in love with, that blue is the color he looks for when he needs Ian to tell him that they will be okay.

Green is the color of some of Ian’s favorite places. It’s the color of memories Anthony has about the million and one adventures they have had with each other, the color that is present in every corner of Los Angeles, their new home.

Yellow is the halo that seems to be present with each time the light hits Ian in a certain way, is the sunlight streaming through their windows and kissing Ian’s bare skin in the mornings after evenings spent in each other’s embrace, chasing pleasure with one another. It’s the color that reminds Anthony of Ian’s sunny smiles, of his laughter, of his optimistic ideas.

Orange is the sunset Ian and Anthony sometimes see from the window of their apartments whenever they’re not with each other. It’s the color that reminds them of the other, the color that makes them miss each other just that bit more. Orange is the color of Ian’s hair when enough sunlight hits them as they drive to the office, the sunroof opened to let air in.

Red is the color of Ian’s lips as he kisses Anthony and drives him crazy with desire, the color of his cheeks as he feels the surge of electricity down his spine, the color of his cock as Anthony tries to repay the gesture and brings him to the edge again and again before finally letting him go. It is the color of Anthony’s whispers to Ian after their lovemaking, the color of tender hugs in the morning and tight cuddles at night. Red is the color of “I miss you” and “I want you” and “I love you”.

And somewhere along the line, in this world, red is the color of “I do”.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Smosh. I don’t make money from this.


End file.
